


The Fillyjonk Who Hated Convention

by duckweed_and_pondscum



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Established Snufmin, Fantastic Racism, Fillyjonks are terrible mothers, Gen, Light Angst, POV Second Person, Running Away, mild homophobia, snufkin can't stop adopting random urchins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25051894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckweed_and_pondscum/pseuds/duckweed_and_pondscum
Summary: "Mother doesn’t like you. This you know, and it is nothing new. For one, this is because anyone with eyes can see the disagreements and incompatibilities between you two. And two, this because whenever you do something especially incorrigible, she reminds you. She says it is discipline, to mold you into a fine young lady. You say she is just mean."A young Fillyjonk is sick of her uptight and orderly mother, so she runs away. But Fillyjonks aren't made for the woods.
Relationships: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll & Original Character(s), Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Snusmumriken | Snufkin & Original Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 63





	The Fillyjonk Who Hated Convention

**Author's Note:**

> An origin fic for my Moomin OC, Fillikin. You can see more about her [here.](https://ragabond.tumblr.com/tagged/fillikin)
> 
> Dysphoria warning: this story is written in second person, and the main character is referenced to be a girl on multiple occasions.

Mother doesn’t like you. This you know, and it is nothing new. For one, this is because anyone with eyes can see the disagreements and incompatibilities between you two. And two, this because whenever you do something especially incorrigible, she reminds you. She says it is discipline, to mold you into a fine young lady. You say she is just mean.

You are hiding in a tree, the old pine just behind the house. It is your favorite, and you go there every time you exclaim you are going to run away. Mother threatens to cut it down every time you return, defeated and covered in sap, but she hasn’t got the time nor the disposition. Besides, it would surely fall on either the house or the shrubs, and she can’t have that. 

“Filifröken, you horrible little girl! Get back here this instant!” you hear her screech. You peer out from your hiding place, and you see her standing a safe distance from your hiding place. You roll your eyes at her. There is a reason you still choose to hide here after she found it: needles and sap. Mother is terrified of them, of needles in her hair and silly stiff collar, of sap on her gloves and the bottom of her shiny boots. Were it not for those flimsy yet effective barriers, she would have dragged you down here long ago. And, you are not nearly as ashamed of this as you should be, she gets such an awful headache when you return with dirt between your toes and little bits of bark falling out of your hair, leaving a long trail behind you. 

  


This time, what you did was break a porcelain tiger. You were practicing sword fighting with a feather duster, and without looking at what you were doing, you had walked backwards right into the fancy mahogany end table, and off had fallen the tiger. You had fallen over too, of course, you are not nearly so agile as a dignified young lady should be. Normally you have no problems with this, but today it had given you a nasty bump on your head. Not that Mother had cared, of course. She had walked in to find her youngest daughter on the floor, sitting among the pieces of a porcelain figurine, and she had shrieked. And for a brief, hopeful moment, you had thought that maybe, just maybe, she had been concerned about you. But she had gone immediately to fetch the dustpan, in a tizzy about shards in her carpet, and your hopes had been as dashed as the tiger. 

  


By now, you have been mulling the tiger incident over for hours. It is raining. Mother has given up on you, at least for today, and gone inside. But you remain in the tree, your hair hanging down limply and your little red dress clinging to your skin pitifully. Eventually you start to sneeze, and you climb down the tree to begin your walk of shame back to the house. In a moment of uncharacteristic compassion for your Mother, you try your best to avoid the mud. It isn’t any use, the ground is completely runny.

You approach the front door and jiggle the knob, but it is locked. Of course it is. Mother and her fear of burglars. You try to reach the knocker, but you are too short. So you bring your tiny paw as high as you can and knock once, twice, and then you swing at empty air as she opens the door. 

“Off the porch.” she says curtly, pointing at the front yard.

“Huh?” you’re shocked and confused, even a little hurt. But not really surprised.

“Off the porch until you clean yourself off,”

“Fine! I don’t even want to go inside anyway!” you yell spitefully as you stomp back into the rain. 

Slighted, Mother gives you a miffed  _ harumph _ . “If you want to act like a _M_ _ umrik _ so much, why don’t you go be one!” she yells shrilly at you. “But I suspect you won’t, a child as impossible as you would never be able to stomach it! Come back when you learn how to be a  _ real _ Fillyjonk!”

  


And then she slams the door, and you’re standing alone in the rain, rooted to the spot with shock. 

After a minute or so you sneeze, jolting you out of your stupor. Hot tears run down your snout and mingle with the rain. You are hurt and humiliated, misunderstood and angry and betrayed. Mother’s words from earlier ring in your ears.  _ “If you want to act like a Mumrik so much, why don’t you go be one” _

Why not, indeed! What a brilliant idea. To your naive, sheltered mind, simply running away seems like a perfect plan. You’ll leave tonight, as soon as you can. 

Should you go up to your room and fetch your stuff? No, the door’s locked, and besides, there’s really nothing there that you care for. You do a cartwheel for the sheer joy of it all. You’re not very good at it, and you fall in the mud messily, but you don’t even care. You’re free! 

In your exuberance, you haven’t even a thought of leaving a note for Mother. You bound joyously into the woods, your silly little hat lying crumpled in the mud where it fell. That, along with some marks in the mud as you scrambled to your feet, the empty space on the mahogany side table, are the last traces of your existence in this household. 

  


Tomorrow morning Mother will come outside to see your hat lying haphazardly in the mud and signs of chaos, with you nowhere to be found. But it will be too late, you will be long gone by then. 

* * *

It is an hour later, and you don’t think you’ve ever walked so far in your life, the neatly trimmed hedges and immaculate paths of your little world far behind, the borders of your understanding stretching, tense, upon the realization of the true size of the world. It hurts your head to think about it for too long, so you look at the trees instead, messy and perfect.

You are exhausted, stumbling, but you still keep your head to the sky, a thrill running down your spine as you realize the impossibility of cleaning the whole world. There will always be mess. Now isn’t that beautiful? 

The rain is drenching your hair, but that doesn’t even matter to you. You don’t even miss your silly little hat. You’re looking up, and that’s why you don’t notice the root until you’re on the ground, knees stinging, snout sore from the impact.

You whimper, and hot tears start to fall from your eyes. Instinctively, you go to wipe them away, but then you freeze. Out here alone in the woods, there’s no one to scold and berate you for crying. You let yourself hurt freely for the first time in your life, and it feels good. 

* * *

Two hours have passed by now. You are starting to doubt your decision making skills. The scrapes on your knees hurt, the cold rain doing nothing to ease them. You’re thirsty, and soggy, and your shoes are making unpleasant squelching noises. Hopefully, there’s a clothesline when you get there. Wherever there is, exactly. You really should have thought this through better. But you keep walking. You can’t turn back now. You’re too far from home, and far too proud.

Your vision begins to blur, whether from rain or from exhaustion, you’re not really sure which. You put one tired foot in front of the other, in front of the other, in front of the other. And then your foot goes plummeting, down a rabbit hole, and you fall over again. 

You try to yank your leg out, but it’s stuck. You start to dig your leg out with tiny paws, the mud clumping your fur and getting stuck under your claws. As you finish shaking another handful of mud out of your claw, you’re struck by a thought. You pause your task and examine your claws. Thoughts of nature, rebellion, freedom, practicality swirl around your young mind. Then you twist around and begin to unlace your boot. 

You wriggle your little foot out of your shoe, and you’re free from the hole. You continue on an uneven keel, one foot now a few inches taller than the other, and you get maybe 50 meters before you think that maybe, perhaps, one heeled boot isn’t worth the trouble of protecting a singular foot, and if you were going to step on something you’d hurt yourself anyway. So now you’re walking through the woods barefoot, wondering how in the world you got here in one short, long day.

* * *

It’s been three hours since you started out, and your progress for the last hour has been severely hobbled by your cautious, fearful footsteps. You’re just not used to walking barefoot! Mother never let you dirty your feet like that before. 

The sun is starting to set, but you can’t tell where in the sky it is, obscured by clouds and rain as it is. There goes your last hope of ascertaining your direction… oh well. You doubt it would have been much help, now that you think about it. You are never quite certain whether it’s east or west where the sun sets. 

Hopefully, you are going north. You’ve heard there’s a little valley up north that’s almost magically perfect, with tall winter snows and colorful meadows and impossibly kind people living in a tall blue house. With your luck, though, you’ll probably be just a few miles too far east, and overshoot it entirely, and then you’ll keep walking so far, searching, ‘til you reach the top of the world where it snows all year round! That, or maybe you’re walking southeast, and you’ll end up in Russia where you’ll be eaten by bears. You sigh, and your stomach gives a forlorn rumble, as if to agree with you. 

  


A creature’s cry sounds, and you are suddenly, keenly aware that you are alone in the woods. young, barefoot, lost, and alone. You shiver. You hear a low, blood-chilling wail, and you’ve never heard a wolf, but you instantly know with every fiber of your being that this must be it. Panicked, you start to run, like a deer caught up in the hunt. You’re not listening. You’re not looking. You’re running on sheer adrenaline and fear here. 

You keep running, all caution in your footsteps thrown to the wind, left behind for the wolves that are surely behind you. Twigs crunch underfoot, small pebbles lodge between your toes, and you think you may have a cut on the sole of your paw. You put one foot in front of the other, not even thinking, until you put your left foot down in a patch of mud and it comes flying out from underneath you. You flail wildly for the quickest instant of your young life, and then you land, your leg beneath you at a precarious angle.

You shift, ready to stand, but a searing pain shoots through your ankle and you crumple to the ground. You sit there for a moment, and now that you are out of your frenzy you are able to consider the silence. There aren’t any wolves, and you don’t know what you heard before, but those weren’t wolves either. You were never in any danger. Except now you’ve gone and put yourself into a whole pot of trouble, you think wretchedly. Oh, how foolish you feel! You crawl over to the base of a large tree, curl up, and try to get some sleep. 

  


After several hours of drifting in and out of sleep, your subconscious has given up and you awaken fully, nearly just as tired as when you went to sleep. You can tell it’s morning, and it’s no longer raining, but a fog has rolled in so thick and heavy that the sun won’t be of much help to anyone. 

You get to your feet uncertainly and gingerly shift your weight to your left leg. A jolt of pain shoots through it, and you let out a yelp as you jump back over to your right leg. Then you begin the slow, arduous process of moving forward, tears prickling in your eyes. A wail leaves your throat, and you let it go, let it find its way into the world. You don't remember which direction you were headed in last night, and any hope you have of getting your bearings is gone, shrouded in the fog. So you pick a direction and start to walk, hoping it’s not southeast. 

  


You can’t have gotten very far when you start to see a light appear ahead of you. As it gets closer, you can hear someone singing softly, playful and lilting.

Mother’s voice flashes through your ears, and you remember all the unsavory types of people she warned you lurk in forests. Killers, robbers, tramps, child stealers, and more. You freeze. The voice is getting nearer, and you can now make out that it probably belongs to a man, and that he’s singing a song about an endless road. Surely whoever has a song as nice as this couldn’t possibly be so bad? But fear wins out, and you begin to inch yourself, carefully, to the right so as not to be seen.

In your fright, you forget entirely about the swelling in your ankle. You step back onto your left leg, and before you can stop it a cry of pain escapes your lips. The singing stops. You stay very, very still. 

Then you hear footsteps, quickly approaching, and soon the singing man stands before you, holding out a lantern in one paw. He’s tall, with scruffy auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail. He wears a raggedy coat, a scarf, and on his head is a green hat that looks like it must be as old as he is. You have your suspicions from his attire alone, but looking at his fuzzy nose and furry brown paws confirms it: this man is Mumriken. 

This is the first time you’ve ever met a Mumrik, and despite your deep admiration for them and how very kind this man looks, you can’t help but feel frightened, even a little distrustful of him. You recall all the things Mother has said about Mumriks, none of them good, and you know from the state of his coat and apparent total disregard for proper gender roles that at least some of them are true.   


  


“Hello, little one,” he says in a gentle voice, lilting playfully as if he was still singing, “I’m Snufkin. And who might you be?” 

“I’m-” Filifröken. 

“ I’m Snufkin too.”

Why did you  _ say _ that? Not only is it not true in the slightest, now you’ve gone and upset him! Adults are always upset when you speak nonsense to them, and on top of that Mother says that Mumriks always have the queerest temperaments. 

But Snufkin only laughs. “No you’re not, because I'm Snufkin, and as far as I know there’s only one of me.” 

You open your mouth, then close it again, unwilling and unable to say you’re a Fillyjonk, or a little girl. No doubt he can tell you’re both of those, just as you could tell he was a Mumrik, but it’s not about that. It’s about the act of admitting it, of confirming it, of solidifying his assumption of you. 

“You don’t have to say,” he adds, “little one is fine for now. What are you doing out here in the woods, dressed all proper like that?” 

He didn’t say it outright, but the implication was clear: what’s a Fillyjonk like you doing out in the middle of nature? 

“I’m a vagabond!” you answer, trying your best to put on a bravado. 

Snufkin looks you up and down, then smiles. “Well!” he says, “from one vagabond to another, would you like to share a meal at my campfire? Swap some stories, maybe?”   


  


You consider his offer. On the one hand, you have precious few stories, and those you have are doubtlessly nowhere near as exciting as his. On the other, though, you are ever so curious about his adventures, and the last meal you had was breakfast yesterday. Timidly you nod your head, and he gives a hum of agreement. He turns and starts to walk away, and you try to keep pace with him, but his legs are so very long, and yours so very short. You step on your injured leg too hard, too fast, and your leg buckles from beneath you with a yelp. Snufkin whirls around, and then walks over and wordlessly picks you up. 

“Let me go!” you protest, “I can walk on my own!” 

You don’t relish the idea of relinquishing the first kindness you’ve been shown in years, but it’s a matter of pride. Even if you’re a failure of a fillyjonk in every other way, pride you have plenty of.

“No you can’t,” Snufkin said simply, and that was that. Mostly, you were stunned into silence by the fact that an adult was willing to do unnecessary work for your personal comfort. You could barely remember the last time Mother could be bothered to fuss over you. It had been before you had learned to climb trees, that you knew. Perhaps he was just impatient to get back home, to a wife maybe?  


  


Snufkin doesn’t say much, and you itch for something to break the silence. You haven’t had a pleasant conversation in so long, only silence and scolding. Your stomach growls loudly, and you blush furiously. That wasn’t the kind of distraction you wanted. Snufkin glances down at your embarrassed face, and then speaks. 

“Do you like pancakes?” he asks. You don’t know. Mother never makes pancakes, says they’re too messy. You tell him as much. 

“Moomintroll makes excellent pancakes,” Snufkin says, a fond smile slipping onto his face. You’re confused. Is this Moomintroll a friend, a roommate? Probably a traveling companion, you deduce. 

  


Eventually you end up in a clearing, in front of a small cabin. There’s a weather-beaten tent in front of it, with a log and a fire pit beside. On the side of the cabin there’s a turret poking out, half painted blue and looking like someone tried to smush it into the cabin. Snufkin sets you down on the log, then sticks his hand in his mouth and whistles twice, one short one long, one short one long.

A kindly looking Moomin comes out of the cabin, and a huge smile spread across his snout at the sight of Snufkin. He doesn’t seem to notice you as he walked up and rubbed his nose right against Snufkin’s. Your mouth falls open in shock, and you snap it shut with a flush of shame. You hadn’t meant to be rude, you were just surprised. You’ve just never before met any people like… that. At least, you don’t  _ think _ you have. You’d always assumed that they’d look different, that you’d be able to tell. These men just look… normal. And kind. 

Moomintroll notices you now, and exclaims, “oh! A guest!” You avert your eyes, feeling as if you’ve wronged him somehow even though he can’t possibly have been offended by your private thoughts.   


  


Snufkin notices your fidgeting. “Is something wrong?” he asks with an unwarranted kindness.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out. 

“For what, little one?”

“For assuming you had a wife. I was always told-” and you stop talking, throat too thick to continue. You look down at your feet, expecting some sort of outrage at your insolence. 

  


Instead, you hear peals of laughter coming from Snufkin. Moomintroll, however, is silent. You look up anxiously, expecting to see anger on his face, but instead he just looks confused. Snufkin sighs. 

“Her parents are homophobic, Moomintroll,” he explains, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Mother,” you supply helpfully. 

“Mother. Her Mother is homophobic.” 

“Oh!” Moomintroll exclaims, then turns to you, “Your Mother sounds like a twit. Do you like pancakes?” 

You nod and smile wider than you think you’ve ever smiled in your life. Your mind whirls with possibilities and happiness and new beginnings. You’re thinking mostly of pancakes and singing and pointy hats and not wearing shoes, but somewhere in the back of your mind you know, with absolute certainty, that your days of being no more than an ornament are behind you. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Lance (@carrionthird on tumblr) for the title idea. Also thank you to Cinder (@femmeforeverafter) for Beta-ing, it was very helpful. 
> 
> Comments are always appreciated, and feel free to come scream at me about moomins @ragabond on tumblr.


End file.
